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?”
“Where would you go? To report to Shandaha?”
“Why would I do that?”
“You are his creature. He gives you his orders and you obey. You claim to be an ordinary woman but, as you stand there, I see something far different than that.”
Dumarest threw his legs over the edge of the bed and stood before her. Looking down into her upturned face he was acutely aware of her femininity, his response to it, his need and desire. Aware, too, of the dilemma he faced.
He could be the subject of a test. Ifhe ignored the allure of the woman would it prove the strength of his detachment? To accept what she offered his lack of resolve? Or the very reverse? What did Shandaha hope to learn? What would be the wisest thing for him to do?
The room itself hinted at the answer. In any such place how would he have treated a woman who had come to him as Nada had done? If not to accept her then to make the rejection one which would cause no anger. To act with gentle courtesy. Above all to salvage her pride.
To gain time he turned and retrieved the robe Nada had discarded from where it lay in a sprawl of vibrant color. Rising he saw her face, her eyes, the subtle hardening of her lips and recognized the added dimension to his predicament. A woman fully aware of her attributes. A creature of passion and pride who had come to him and offered herself as a willing diversion. An invitation it would be dangerous to reject. He was in no position to invite the fury of a woman scorned.