Prison of Night

A beautiful woman and a clever one in her fashion. Dumarest studied the lines and contours of the face, the eyes, deep-set beneath strong brows, the lips full, the lower pouted in betraying sensuality. The cheekbones were high, the jaw strong, the nose patrician. His eyes fell lower. Had the mounds of her breasts swollen? Was the waist a little thicker than it had been? The curve of her belly more prominent?

Was she really pregnant or had she lied?

"Earl?" She was impatient, wanting arguments or explanations or perhaps only his attention. For long hours she had done nothing but send the raft on a carefully plotted path at a carefully maintained height. Work for a machine but they had none sophisticated enough and Dumarest had not wanted to use anyone else. "How much longer must we do this?"

"This is the last leg."

"You've seen all you want?" Her tone was bitter. "Is the land worth holding? My ancestors thought so-some of them died for it."

"And more have sweated for it," he said, dryly. "And gained just enough to hold their bodies when they died."

"Serfs," she said. "Retainers."

"People."

He turned as the instrument mounted at the back of the vehicle gave a sharp, brittle sound. An automatic camera set on struts so as to allow the lens a clear field of view, a timing mechanism taking one frame after another at regular intervals. The signal had been to warn him the magazine was close to exhaustion.

"Be ready to halt, Lavinia." He watched the counter, heard again the warning. "Now!"

Dumarest changed the magazine as the raft ceased its forward progress then leaned over the side of the open-bodied craft to study the ground below. It was rough, the surface torn and savage, bare of vegetation aside from patches of scrub. Yellow rock and sand edged the rims of crevasses, the dim bulk of massive boulders showing at their bottoms, streaks of mineral brightness lying like a tracery of filigree in the murky shadows.

A harsh place but beneath it could lie thick veins of minerals; rare metals, gems, valuable chemicals, fossil fuels, all things for which more sophisticated worlds would pay high prices to obtain. Refineries could be built and mines started. Men could be hired together with skilled technicians. The old ways would vanish as the retainers now bound to the great Families found economic independence. New towns would be built, new fields established. Traffic would fill the air, the deserts would bloom and ships would come streaming in from space with their holds stuffed with luxuries and essentials in exchange for the wealth torn from the bowels of this backward planet.

It had happened before. He had seen it happen-but it wouldn't happen here. Not while the Sungari ruled over what lay beneath the surface and the Pact had to be maintained.

"Earl!" Lavinia looked at him from where she sat. "Earl, I'm sorry. Can you forgive a stupid woman?"

"No-not when she isn't really stupid but just chooses to act that way."

"One day I'll get used to you," she said, softly. "I don't know when that day will be, maybe not for years, but it will come. When it does I'll understand why you do what you do. This raft, these photographs, why are they so necessary?"

"You said we should fight, remember?"

"With men and guns and courage."

"There are more ways than one to fight," he said, flatly. "And the least efficient is to set one man against another. It's also the most expensive both in terms of money and human misery. You claim to love this land-do you want to see it destroyed?"

"Of course not!"

"What do you think would happen if armies met and heavy weapons were used? The castle is strong, but a single missile could reduce it to rubble. Your retainers might be brave, but what good is bravery when flesh and hair and bone are burning beneath chemical heat? In such a war there are no victors. Only the mercenaries stand to gain from loot and pay and even then too many of them will die."

"Scum!"

"Workers," he corrected. "Men willing to do a dirty job. They don't demand that you hire them."

"Beasts! Predators!"

"If you hire men to kill you don't expect them to act like a crowd of monks." Dumarest checked the camera, "Turn, move to the right for three hundred yards, head south and maintain course."

"Due south?"

"No. Run a course parallel to the other. Speed and height the same."

He sat as she obeyed, leaning over the edge of the raft and watching as the ground streamed past below. Not all of Zakym was desert, much of it was fertile soil bearing a variety of crops; good, well-watered dirt which was the source of the majority of food. Other areas were less fertile but supported enough vegetation to provide grazing for beasts. There was a little mining in certain areas. A little fishing on the coast far to the west. A little industry-everything on the world was little. A bad place for any traveler to be stranded. In more ways than one he had been lucky.

"Earl!"