Prison of Night

Chapter Eight

"You were lucky," said the physician, "But then, without luck, how long would a man like yourself continue to live?"

A question Dumarest didn't bother to answer. He stretched in the bed, feeling the tug of newly healed flesh on arm and stomach. His right hand, when he examined it, was clear of bruises. Aside from hunger and a consuming thirst he felt completely well. Slow-time, of course, the converse of the drug which made long journeys seem short. Beneath its influence his metabolism would have speeded so that he lived hours in a matter of minutes. Kept unconscious his body had healed while he slept.

"You've been under for a week subjective," said the doctor. "I used hormone salves and gave you a complete blood-wash to remove the toxins. Forced growth of injured tissue and, naturally, intravenous feeding. I've had you resting under micro-current induced sleep for a while-I'm not fond of jerking my patients awake directly from slow-time unless there's a good reason. You're hungry, of course."

"And thirsty. Some water?" Dumarest drank, greedily. "Thank you. What happened?"

"You were unconscious when found. I was summoned and fortunately was able to get there in time. I gave you emergency treatment, had you brought into town and here you are." The doctor frowned as Dumarest helped himself to more water. "Do you always have such a thirst?"

"Recently, yes."

"Strongly recurring? By that I mean you drink, wait, feel an intense thirst and then have to drink again. All in short intervals. Too short to be normal. Yes?" His frown deepened as Dumarest nodded. "Any vomiting, signs of nausea, double vision?"

"No. Why?"

"Persistent thirst is a symptom of brain damage. A symptom, mind, not conclusive evidence that such damage exists. Coupled with difficulty in moving and a general torpor it could signal a lesion in the base of the brain." His eyes narrowed at Dumarest's sudden tension. "Is anything wrong?"

"No. Can you test for such damage?"

"Of course. If you wish I'll make an appointment for you to come in later."

"Now." Dumarest threw his legs over the edge of the cot and sat upright. He wore only a thin hospital gown. Rising he felt a momentary nausea which was the natural result of a body which had rested too long and had been too quickly moved. "I want you to do it now."

As the doctor readied his instruments there was time for thought. The dominant half of the affinity twin which he had injected into himself had nestled at the base of the cortex. When Chagney had died it should have dissolved and been assimilated into his metabolism. But-if Chagney had not died?

The concept was ridiculous. He had forced the body to step into space. He had seen through the borrowed eyes the naked glory of the universe. Had felt them burst, the lungs expand, the tissue yield to the vacuum. All had died, brain, bone, body-all dehydrated in the emptiness of the void, drifting now and for always in the vast immensity of space.

Dead.

Totally erased.

Then why did he continue to hear the crying? The thin, pitiful wailing of a creature trapped and helpless and knowing he was to die?

"Are you all right?" The doctor was standing before him, leaning forward over the chair, his eyes anxious. "Here!" His hand lifted bearing a vial, pungent vapors rising from the container to sting eyes and nostrils. "Inhale deeply. Deeply."

Dumarest pushed it aside. "Doctor, how long can a brain live?"

"Without oxygen about three minutes. After that time degeneration of tissue begins to set in and any later recovery will be attended by loss of function."

"And if it could be preserved in some way? Frozen, for example?"

"As it is when you travel Low?" The doctor pursed his lips. "Theoretically, in such a case, life is indefinite. In actual practice the slow wastage of body tissue will result in final physical breakdown and resultant death. I believe, on Dzhya, they have criminals who have lain in the crytoriums for two centuries and who still register cerebral activity on a subconscious level. In theory, if a brain could be thrown into stasis, residual life would remain."

In a brain suddenly exposed to the vacuum of space? One dehydrated and frozen before any cellular disruption could have taken place?

Was the subjective half of the affinity twin still alive?

"You're sweating," said the doctor. "You don't have to be afraid."

Not of the machines and instruments ringing the chair but there was more. Was he still connected to Chagney? Would he continue to hear the man crying? Had he locked himself into a prison from which there could be no escape?

How to find a drifting body in the void? How to destroy it?

"Steady," said the doctor. "Just relax and close your eyes. I want to insert a probe and take some measurements. Just think of something pleasant."

A dead man drifting, ruptured eyes scars in the mask of his face, blood rimming his mouth with a long-dried crust, his heart a lump of tissue, stomach puffed, lungs a ruin- but his brain? His mind? The thing it contained?

"Easy," said the doctor. "Easy."

A probe silling into his mind. Dumarest could imagine it, the slender tool plunging deep, touching the artificial symbiote nestling at the base of the cortex, stimulating it, perhaps, building a strengthened bond with its other half.

Would his mind fly to that other body? Live again in dead and frozen tissue? Know nothing but the silent emptiness, the unfeeling void?

A chance, but a risk which had to be taken. He had to know.

"Steady!" The doctor drew in his breath. "There!" He let the moment hang as he checked the withdrawn probe and studied the findings. "Nothing. The scan shows no trace of a tumor and no excessive pressure. There is no scarring and no malformation. There is however a trace of an unusual compactness of tissue at the base of the cortex as if there was a slight concentration of molecular structure. Biologically it is nothing to worry about. It may barely, have given rise to your increased thirst but I tend to think the cause is more psychological than physical."

"How so?"

"As you know Zakym is an unusual world. Some adapt and some do not. A few find it too disturbing to live here for long. There is a breakdown in the adaption syndrome which reveals itself in unusual physical oddities. One man, I remember, developed a tormenting itch while another acquired a craving for salt. If the thirst continues I would be tempted to look for the reason in the psychosomatic region. You are in excellent physical condition and you most certainly have nothing to worry about as regards the organic health of your brain."

"Thank you," said Dumarest.

"For giving you reassurance?"

"For saving my life. The bill?"

"Lady Lavinia has taken care of that. She left word she would be waiting for you at the hotel."

It was night and Dumarest made his way through the maze of tunnels connecting the various buildings of the town. A corridor led to the hotel and he climbed stairs leading to snugly shuttered chambers. Lavinia was in the common room seated at a table. She was not alone.

"Earl!" She rose as she saw him and came to meet him, smiling, hands extended. They lifted to fall to his shoulders as, without hesitation, she pressed herself close, her lips finding his own. "Thank God you are well! The doctor-"

"Gave me a clean bill of health." Holding her he added, quietly, "You saved me."

"You saved yourself. We saw the smoke and found you and I had men ride back to summon the physician and get a raft. Roland helped. Chelhar-Earl, what happened?"

"A mistake." One which had cost the assassin his life but this was not the time or place to talk about it. Dumarest glanced at the man seated at the table. "A friend of yours?"

"Not of mine, of yours. Don't you recognize him? Kars Gartok. He arrived this afternoon Ilyard. He claims to have known you for years."

He rose as they approached the table, his scarred face creasing into a smile. His bow was deferential without being obsequious. A man accustomed to dealing with the rich and powerful but one who had retained his independence.

He tensed as Dumarest strode towards him, seeing the eyes, the anger they held, the set of the mouth which had grown cruel. A killer's mask. Quickly he lifted both hands and held them before him. The fingers were devoid of rings.

"I am unarmed!"

"And a liar!"

"There are times when need dictates deception. You were unavailable." He glanced at the woman. "My lady I apologize for my subterfuge yet I did not wholly lie. While not close we do have mutual acquaintances if not exactly friends. Major Kan Lofoten, for example? You remember him, Earl?"

Dumarest met the deep-set eyes, his own shifting to the temples, the scars, the corners of the mouth, recognizing the choice the man had given him by the use of his name. He could reject it and learn nothing.

"Hoghan," he said. "You were there?"

"A bad world and a bad war. Yes, Earl, I was on Hoghan fighting under Atlmar."

"And Lofoten?"

"Dead with most of the Legion. Cheiha-all plagues are a curse, of them all cheiha is most to be feared. I was lucky and managed to escape in time. Well, enough of that, some things are best forgotten." Gartok glanced at the bottle standing on the table. "Are best drowned in wine. Of your charity, my lady?"

She smiled at the quaint method of asking for a drink. "You need no charity."

"You are gracious." Gartok lifted the bottle. "You will join me, Earl?"

Dumarest nodded, watched as the man poured, lifted his glass and studied the other over the rim. A man typical of his type but with a gift the majority lacked. A touch of humor, a philosophical attitude towards the life he had chosen, a native shrewdness which had enabled him to survive. A man who had sought him out-why?

"To warn you," he said when Dumarest asked the question. "You are a target, my friend. Need I say more?"

"A target?" Lavinia didn't understand then, as the meaning dawned on her, she caught her breath. "An assassin? Earl!"

"His name?"

"How can I answer that? Men use many names, my friend, but watch for a stranger who has an excuse for getting close. Someone not too-" Gartok broke off, his eyes narrowing. "Am I too late?"

"Chelhar!" Lavinia's glass broke in her hand. "Mbom Chelhar!"

A man who had been a little too eager, a little too inexperienced and so had made the lethal mistake of underestimating his victim. His casual disregard of protocol, the lack of elementary courtesy, his challenge, his very attitude had jarred with his adopted pose. Now he was dead and his secrets with him.

Dumarest said, "How did you know I was a target?"

"Rumors. Whispers in the dark. Hints dropped over wine-does it matter?"

"It matters. You mentioned Hoghan. I never saw you there. You fought under Haiten, you say?"

"Haiten lost. I was with Atlmar." Gartok reached for the bottle and poured himself more wine. "And we never met-did I claim we had? I learned of you from a captain who was greatly impressed. Listening to him I gained the impression that you watched a soldier lift his rifle, waited until he had fired then dodged the bullet. An exaggeration, naturally, but stories gain in the telling. And later I saw you as you walked in the town." He glanced at Lavinia. "You were not alone."

"A woman, Earl?" Lavinia had caught the subtle shift of inflexion. "Were you with a woman?"

Looking at the mercenary Dumarest said, "Describe her."

"Tall, well-made, beautiful if your interests lie in the patrician mold. She had red hair and her nails were tipped with metal. Her name-"

"I know her name." The man was either well-schooled or telling the truth. "Why are you here?"

"I told you. To carry a warning." Gartok stared at Dumarest for a long moment, then sighed. "There is more, naturally. Sometimes in life a man recognizes an opportunity. If he is wise he takes it. And if others aid him in his ambition, well, what else can he do but follow the tide? On Ilyard I heard rumors of the situation here on Zakym. Of an heir eager to claim his inheritance-or a man claiming to be that heir. You see the difference?"

"Go on."

"There was a monk who died. An old man but tough as monks always are. Why should he have died? I was curious and went to his cremation. I saw there a man with his wife and both seemed unduly distressed. The woman was almost hysterical. Again I wondered why she should have been so upset at the death of an old man. So I investigated and found something, an old book which the monk had kept. A record of sorts. I borrowed it."

"And?"

"I will make it plain, my friend. Gydapen had a partner as surely you must have guessed. His name is Charl Erabris and he is one of the largest dealers on Ilyard. You want men, guns, heavy equipment in order to wage a war? He can supply them. Credit? He can supply that too. Offer him the loot of a world and the prospect will fill his universe." Gartok drained the last of his wine then added, quietly, "You can appreciate why such a man would be your enemy."

"He sent the assassin?"

"Yes."

"And the monk?" Lavinia leaned forward over the table. "What had he to do with it?"

"Nothing. He was a victim and that was all. Lady Othurine, Embris's wife, was distraught and sought comfort from the church. The old monk attended her. She would have told him things others wanted to remain secret. Her husband for one. Her son for another. Especially her son."

"The false heir?"

"You are shrewd, my lady. When Gydapen died an excuse had to be found to continue with the original plan. The original heir provided it. He is dead, of course, and his identity has been adopted by another. A vicious murder for the sake of greed, but what intelligent man would set another on a throne when he could take it for himself? The Lady Othurine loved her son and is afraid for him. She spoke of this to the old monk." Gartok stared into his empty glass. "For that he died."

Assassinated in order to close his mouth. Such things were easily arranged on a world devoted to the pursuit of war.

But the mercenary-where did his interests lie?

"You mentioned a book," said Dumarest. "Which you borrowed."

"And which the monks reclaimed. The Church abhors violence, Earl, but justice is another matter. We came to an arrangement. Armed with knowledge they had given me I visited Embris and came to an understanding. He thinks I am here on his behalf."

"Are you?"

Gartok lifted his glass and turned it in his thick fingers, a single drop of wine moving sluggishly over the crystal; blood won from a reluctant wound.

"I am a gambler, Earl, what else can a mercenary be? To work for Embris is to work for the man who hopes to make this world his own and for what? Small pay and high risk and, when the prize has been won, scant thanks and small reward. Now, if I were to work with you…?" He let his voice trail into silence.

"I have nothing, you realize that?"

"You have yourself."

Lavinia said, sharply, "What do you hope to gain?"

"Money, my lady." Gartok was blunt. "A high place, lands, certainly rich compensation-all conditional on victory. If we lose I get nothing."

"If we lose Earl could be dead!"

A prospect which tormented her and one she mentioned when, later, they were alone. The room was one of the best the hotel could provide, the light soft amber from lanterns of tinted glass, the floor thick with woven rugs. Sitting on the edge of the wide, soft bed she looked at him, noting the way he moved, the calm, contained energy he radiated, the determination.

"Earl, what would I do without you?"

"You'd live."

"How can you say that? Before I met you life was just an existence. Now-?" She broke off, knowing she needed to be strong, wondering why she was not. To yield to a man, to rely on him was to become weak and yet it was nice to be comforted by his strength, to rest warm in the assurance that she was not alone. "Can we trust him?"

"Gartok?" He frowned. "I think so."

"We could make certain," she suggested. "There are tests-no?"

"No."

She didn't ask him to explain, to point out that a man of Gartok's stamp had his honor such as it was and that to demand tests was to offer insult. And, had the man been conditioned, available tests would prove nothing. Instead she said, with acid jealousy, "That woman he mentioned. The one you were with on Hoghan. You didn't let him mention her name."

"Dephine."

"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."