Prison of Night

"Habit," said Roland again, quickly. The man was treading on dangerous ground. As a relative of the woman's he would be forced to demand an apology if a slur was made and this was no time to create discord. "Let us join the others," he suggested. "We don't want to appear indifferent."

Dumarest watched as they moved over the tessellated floor. Navalok was old, Roland younger but still far Lavinia's senior. A curse with which he had to live as did all men born out of their time. From the first Dumarest had recognized the affection the man held for the woman, the hopeless yearning which he had learned to master and conceal. Yet there were times when he betrayed himself as when he had broken the glass.

A small thing, but had others noticed? And would it matter if they had?

Did anything really matter on this strange world where the dead walked when the suns were close and aliens ruled the night?

Lavinia smiled as she came toward him, resting one hand lightly on his arm, the fingers closing with a trace of possession.

"Earl, darling, you seem a little detached. Come and join the company. Alcorus has news."

He was talking about another member of the Council-gossip, not news, but on Zakym the two were often confused.

"I tried to bring Khaya along but you know how he is. That's why we were late. We did out best but he simply wasn't interested. Too busy with his worms, I imagine, and you know how much he hates to be disturbed."

"Worms!" Lavinia shook her head, laughing. "I've known Khaya Taiyuah all my life and still I don't understand him. What pleasure can he possibly find in such an odd hobby?"

"It isn't exactly a hobby," protested Roland. "He's trying to breed a new strain of silkworm. It could have wide commercial application if he succeeds."

"If!" Lavinia shrugged. "A small word with a big meaning. If we had wings we could fly. If sand was gold we'd all be rich. What do you think, Alcorus?"

She wasn't interested, Dumarest knew, but was doing a good job of lightening the atmosphere. Alcorus didn't help.

"I have no opinion."

"Howich?"

Suchong grunted as he sipped his wine. "The man is too old. He could be growing senile. I know we have no right to scorn his interest, but it is more than that. How often does he attend Council? And he forgets his manners. Why, when we visited, he didn't even greet us. All we were given was a message that he was not to be disturbed. How could we argue? A man is master in his own house."

If the man happened to be a lord of Zakym and not a servant or artisan or a visitor from another world.

Dumarest tasted bitterness and lifted a goblet from where it stood among others, filling it with wine from a decanter, swallowing the liquid and feeling warmth spread from it down his throat and into his stomach.

It didn't help.

He needed money, not wine. He needed the coordinates of Earth and a ship to carry him across the void. He wanted to get back home.

Chapter Three

The talk was a fountain; words kept spinning as the juggler had maintained his gilded orbs in the air without apparent effort. An attribute of those who were accustomed to the long, leisurely discussions of the night, but beneath the talk of weather, or crops and herds, of relationships and recipes, entertainers, exchanges, there was an undertone of something else. Navalok edged toward it.

"This should be a good season for you, Lavinia, I saw your herd in the Iron Mountains a few days ago. They look prime beasts in every way. Good, strong foals which should interest the buyers when they arrive."

"One already has." Suchong leaned forward in his chair to better inhale the plume of scented smoke rising in an amber thread from a container of gemmed silver. "I met him in town. A buyer from beyond the Rift coming early so as to make a good selection. I wonder he hasn't contacted you."

"He will if he's interested in mounts," she said. "From where? Beyond the Rift, I know, but which world?"

"Tyumen, I think. Or was it Tyrahmen?" Suchong lifted his head. His face, wreathed by the smoke, was almost saffron and his eyes held a peculiar glitter. "His name is Mbom Chelhar and he seems to have money. The best chamber at the hotel, the best foods and wines. He wears jewels on each finger and smells of riches. An agent, I think, for some wealthy ruler or a combine. We talked about my freshendi and, if the crop is as good as I think it will be, then I shall be a happy man."

"And if not?" Fhard Erason answered his own question. "We plant again and hope and wait again and, while we wait, try not to envy others. But you, Lavinia, have nothing to worry you. As Navalok mentioned your herd is a certain source of revenue. If my lands grew the herbs they need I too would breed such animals." And then he added, with apparent casualness, "Gydapen was a fool not to have diversified more than he did. The desert could have been put to better use."

Lavinia said, sharply, "Gydapen is dead."