Dumarest 33 - Child of Earth (10 page)

S
leep was a misted honeycomb of tiers and shifting planes, of cells filled with glowing hues of amber and gold, silver and ruby, of chrome and dusty orange. Colors which held an enticing brilliance, fading to flare again in rainbows of novel configurations, to yield to the embracing softness of nacreous mists and tinted wreaths of drifting smoke.

Places holding strange shapes and broken shards of elaborate constructions. Of veiled faces and bizarre landscapes. Of presences that rose to walk beside him to vanish as he turned to face them, to become shadows of colored mist, wisps of gossamer cloud.

Dumarest stirred, knowing he was nude, resting on softness, draped by thin fabrics that held the subtle scent of springtime sweetness. The memory of Shandaha was strong as was the puzzle he had set, the elusive manipulation of words and logic that had threatened long-held convictions. There had been too many words and too much wine, if wine it had been, the lambent emerald seeming to dissolve in his throat to leave a glowing euphoria. One that had led to a
glowing world of sleep-induced dreams populated by ghosts and haunted by the unknown.

Somehow he must have left the chamber to strip and get into bed. Or had the bed come to him and had he ever been clothed at all? Questions without answers. Too many puzzles each presenting a disturbing mystery. It was time he found some solutions.

He moved and felt a momentary nausea then was standing, facing an eerie scene of lowering night edged by the dull red glow of the western sky. One he had seen before when on Gath and he looked again at darkness illuminated by moving lanterns carried on rafts, held by tourists, attendants, accompanying guards. A wending line of men and women heading north across a sea-edged plateau towards the fabled mountains of a world holding a unique formation. A spectacle that intrigued the woman standing at his side.

“It looks like a snake,” she said. “Or a centipede. Or an eltross from Vootan. They are composed of seven distinct types of creature united in a common symbiosis. Have you ever seen one?”

The Lady Seena, spoiled ward of the Matriarch of Kund, slender, beautiful, wearing a fortune in gems and rich fabrics. Beside her, dressed in his traveler’s garb, Dumarest was a grey shadow.

He made no comment, eyes searching the column, seeing things he had seen before and was seeing again by a trick of woken memory, the figment of a dream.

“You did not answer me.”

He was her companion. An attendant she regarded as a paid servant. She expected a response. Obediently he said, “No, my lady. I have never seen a eltross.”

“You should. They have a certain charm.” A subject forgotten as she found a new interest.

“That man!” Seena pointed to a figure stooped and struggling beneath a heavy burden. “What does he carry?”

Dumarest told her. She stared in amazement. “A coffin holding the dead body of his wife? You can’t be serious.”

“It is so, my lady.”

“But why?”

“He is probably very attached to her.” He added, dryly, “I understand that some men do feel like that about their wives. They cannot bear to be parted.”

“Now I know that you are joking.” Seena was impatient. “It is hardly a subject for jest. Why is he carrying such a burden? Why did he bring her with him? What can he possibly hope to gain?”

“That is the question, my lady.” Dumarest looked at the woman at his side, seeing again what he had seen so long ago. Knowing what was to come, what she would say. “I am not sure as to his reason but there is a legend on Earth that, on the very last day, a trumpet will sound and all the dead will rise to live again. Perhaps he hopes to hear the sound of that trumpet—or that his wife will hear it.”

“But she is dead.”

“So he claims.”

“But if she is dead how could she hear?” She frowned her irritation. “You fail to make sense,” she complained. “I have heard of no such legend. And I have heard of no such world. Earth!” She laughed at the concept. “Do you really expect me to believe there is such a place?”

“You should—it is very real.” He began walking so as to keep abreast of the column, pausing to allow her to catch up, continuing when she did. “I was born there. I grew up there. It is not a pleasant world. Most of it is desert, a savage, barren expanse in which little grows. It is scarred with old wounds and littered with the ruins of bygone ages and lost civilizations. But—”

He broke off, senses reeling as the scene before him swirled and blended with mist. A time of déjà vu ending as soon as recognized. But the question remained.

How had he known?

How?

He could not have known the details he had mentioned. He had been too young, too small, too weak to have traveled far. The moon, yes, that was plain for all to see, but the scars of old wars, the ruins, the vast expanse of wilderness? As Shandaha had pointed out there was no way he could have seen them and yet he was certain they existed. Certain that all was as he had claimed. Convinced he knew the truth.

Like ghosts thin voices whispered in his mind.

“Earth? A strange name for a planet. Why not call it Sand or Loam or Dirt?”

Laughter at the concept.

“It has to be a legend. A fanciful myth. A world that does not exist.”

More laughter at his insistence that it did.

“Then why isn’t it listed in the Almanac? If it was real it would be registered. The coordinates would be known. They aren’t so it doesn’t.”

Syllostic logic of the kind Shandaha had demonstrated. All planets were listed in the Almanac. If a world was not listed it didn’t exist. Earth was not listed so Earth did not exist. Proof according to the rules of the system used, but the initial premise was at fault. Change it a little to—‘all known planets are listed in the Almanac’—and the reasoning held no value. For if Earth was unknown it could not be listed, but it could still exist.

Comfort of a kind and surely the existence of Earth could soon be no longer a matter of speculation. For he had found the planet. The legendary world of limitless
wealth. He had managed to return, to get back home. The coordinates were no longer a secret. The Kaldari must have them and could have sold them on. They, or others, would use them driven by curiosity and greed.

Given time more vessels must surely arrive.

To be greeted as he had been? Blasted from space to be sent to crash in ruin on the surface of a hostile world? To be eliminated or made a prisoner for the amusement of some decadent being?

Anger touched him and he fought the hampering mists of sleep, rearing to sit upright, clearing his mind, remembering, concentrating on familiar things. He was lost in a world of alien dimensions, lacking coordination, knowledge on which to plan and act. The pawn of a being of apparently superior power amusing himself with an elaborate game. Dumarest remembered the impression he had gained of a player radiating the smug confidence of one convinced of victory. Shandaha had won—but what? The doubt he had sown as to the veracity of youthful memory? A demonstration of skillfully applied logic to score a point? If so why? Shandaha would yield no answer, volunteer no explanation. He was too much in control. A situation that had to change if Dumarest was to gain some degree of independent action.

But how?

The memory of Gath had been a dream but it had provided an anchor of sorts. He knew he had to find another on which to base a degree of self-determination. To fight against the swirling mists with their hypnotic influences, their insidious mind-altering patterns. He needed the stability of familiar scenes, objects, events. To rise above the deceptions, distractions and delusions that clouded his mind. Pain would help and he dug his teeth into the flesh
of his inner cheek concentrating on the hurt, adding to it as he dug his nails into his palms, focusing his mind, dredging his memories with a grim determination.

The world of enchantment thinned, vanished as around him mists and planes changed to become walls, drapes, a ceiling, a floor. He concentrated harder, the walls closing in, drapes flattening, changing, turning into stained plaster and faded paint. The floor became bleached timbers, boards bearing dents, scars and discolorations. The ceiling was low. The light illuminating the chamber streaming through a narrow window. A bed, a door, a table at his side, a chair holding his garments, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, crude facilities for washing.

A rough room in a cheap hotel. One of a type that he knew too well.

He leaned back on the pillow, letting events run their course, closing his eyes as a soft creak came from the door. One repeated from a stubborn hinge as the panel opened, whispering again as it closed. He heard the soft pad of naked feet and moved a little, breathing deeply, his right hand lifting to the edge of the pillow before he slumped into apparent unconsciousness. He heard the soft rustle of discarded fabric. Weight rested on the mattress beside him and he felt the close proximity of rounded flesh. The scent of perfume pervaded his nostrils and the touch of hair was a gentle caress on his shoulder.

A part of revived memory and a natural element of the scene he had created. An attendant harlot, common among such hostelries, coming to offer her services or to steal if the opportunity arose. He moved beneath the caress of her hand, turning his face towards her, obviously aware and on the brink of waking. As she pressed harder against him, the mounds of her breasts flattening against his torso with a soft invitation, his left hand rose to glide over her naked back, to
linger as he caressed the warm, softly rounded flesh. Then to rise higher, to reach the nape of her neck, to lock his fingers in the mane of her hair. To pull back her head so as to expose the column of her throat.

At the same time his right hand moved from beneath the pillow, the knife it held flashing forward to halt with its point pressing against the flesh beneath her jaw, the arteries beneath the skin.

“Earl! No!”

He twisted her face away from him, maintaining his grip, blood oozing from beneath the tip of his blade.

“Don’t move, Nada!” Her perfume had betrayed her. “I don’t know how you managed to disappear when I held you before but I can guess how it could be done. Don’t breath on me! Don’t touch me!”

“I didn’t use gas or drugs. That is the truth. I give you my word!”

“Whatever you used be warned. If I feel myself going, or strange, or you seem to vanish I’ll do my best to drive this blade into your throat. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you here?” As she hesitated he pressed a little harder on the knife. “A word of advice, girl. If someone threatening you asks a question give them an answer. It needn’t be the truth—just give them an answer. Let us try again. Why are you here?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I was lonely, bored and I needed comfort.” She fell silent then added, with sudden anger, “Damn you, Earl! Must you humiliate me?”

“I didn’t ask you to come here.”

“Am I so repulsive?”

“You are beautiful and you know it.” He was curt. “I’m not in the mood for games. Did Shandaha send you?”

“No.”

“Would you have obeyed him if he had?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Because you would have no choice?”

“No, Earl. Because it would have been a pleasure.” She tried to turn her face towards him, then relaxed as he maintained his grip on her hair. “You are hurting me. Do you like to hurt people?”

He looked at the knife, at the blood masking its point, the sheen of her flesh in the light streaming through the window. Beautiful flesh superbly fashioned glowing in the light of dawn, of an early day, a new beginning. He had no choice but to kill or trust her and to kill would gain him nothing.

She sighed as he lifted the blade from her throat and eased his fingers from the mane of her hair. A sigh of relief, of satisfaction or of success—it was impossible to tell. She rose with a smooth grace to glide to the washbasin. Water gushed from the faucet and she laved the blood from her neck then moistened her face and lips. Droplets ornamented her skin with nacreous pearls.

“Do you really think I am beautiful?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Tell me!”

He ignored the demand. “Why did you come here? I’d like the truth this time.”

“I don’t know. I was drawn in some way. I sensed your discomfort. You were ill at ease, tense, strange, somehow lost. I wanted to help.” She moved to sit on the mattress at his side, to lean towards him, her breasts moving with fluid attraction. Her hair framed her face with a skein of beauty.

“I still want to help. To give you comfort.”

“Tell me about yourself.”

“Of course, Earl. But later.”

“Why not now?”

“Are words all you want between us? Is there nothing else? And what is there for me to tell? You have lived such an interesting life, Earl, that you would only be bored. I am just an ordinary woman. One whom, apparently, you do not find attractive. I wish it was otherwise. But I will remove my presence if you wish.”

She rose and stood, lifting her arms, inflating her lungs and turning on her toes in a manner women had used since the beginning of time. One that enhanced her feminine attributes and clothed her with an exotic allure. “Do you want me to leave?”