But, in the end, it was the living who had to make the decisions.
"Tomorrow," she said. "We'll pick up the delivery tomorrow."
But Howich Suchong arrived as they were about to leave with news of odd rumors coming from Gydapen's estate.
Like Taiyuah he was old, like him suspicious, but he had no all-consuming interest in the breeding of new strains cultivating, instead, a wide circle of friendly informants.
"It's odd," he said when, seated in a cool chamber, wine and small cakes set before him, he finally mentioned what had worried him. "You know Gydapen's lands? The arid region to the west?"
"Scrub and sand and little else. Some beasts graze there and there are predators."
Suchong nodded, "But no villages, no arable land, no real reason why a hundred men should have been set to work building hutments."
"No," admitted Roland. "Hutments, you say?"
"Yes."
"A work camp, perhaps?" Lavinia glanced from one to the other. "Something to do with his proposed mining operations?"
"That is what worried me." Suchong took a cake, ate it, wiped crumbs from his lips and delicately sipped at his wine. "The area is beyond that granted by the Sungari. I'd hoped that Gydapen had thought better of his madness but the facts seem to be against it."
"Facts?" She shook her head. "What facts, Howich? Some men building a few shelters-what of it? They could be preparing for a hunt or for herdsmen to take up residence to guard the beasts. I think you worry too much."
"Perhaps." He sipped again at his wine. "But what of the other men who drill at the edge of the desert? And what of the cargo the ship brought here consigned to him?"
"I too have a delivery of goods."
"Most of us had something," he admitted. "But what use could Gydapen have for so much? Large crates and heavy-I saw them when I collected my goods yesterday."
Roland said, "Mining machinery?"
"It could be."
"But you have no proof," said Lavinia. "Only suspicions."
"That is so." Suchong set down his goblet. "But it occurred to me that Gydapen might have said something to you. Confided in you, perhaps?"
"And if he had?"
Suchong sat, his face impassive, an idol carved from weathered stone.
"He has said nothing." Her voice rose a little as he made no comment. "I haven't seen him since the meeting."
He didn't believe her, she knew it, and the knowledge warmed the anger she already felt at his assumption that she would act the spy.
As the silence dragged Roland said, "If Gydapen has been busy as you claim, Howich, he would have had little time for social graces. And he was never a regular visitor here as you know."
"But things have changed since the meeting, surely?"
It was her turn to gain a victory. "Have they, Howich Suchong? Courtesies were exchanged, that is true, and a meal shared-small evidence on which to build vast assumptions. I think that, perhaps, you concern yourself too deeply in the affairs of others."
"Should I sit and ignore my neighbor when his house burns?" His smile was enigmatic. "But, as you have no great loyalty towards Gydapen, you can hardly object to doing a curious old man a favor." His hand fluttered towards his breast. "I have a burning desire for information-an affliction which troubles me at times. But how can I ease it? I have no reason to visit Gydapen but he would not think it strange if you were to call. A long flight to examine your holdings. Some time spent with Taiyuah and then a leisurely journey over the barren lands and the desert to the west. An invitation extended for him to call, perhaps, who could refuse such a charming suppliant?"
"You ask too much, I think!"
"To save the Pact I would demand more!"
Anger flared between them like a sudden fire; his born of determination, hers of the reluctance to play a part and to act the harlot. Then, like a fire which burns too quickly, it died from lack of fuel.
Roland cooled the ashes.
"We will do it," he said. "Lavinia, you can't refuse. Howich, you are not to make a habit of this. But, as you say, the Pact must not be broken."
"The cargo?" It was her last defense, one shattered as he shrugged.
"It can wait."
Wait as they wasted time in tedious conversation and suffered a strained politeness from Khaya Taiyuah. Wait as they moved on, searching, examining, to be met by Gydapen himself when they reached his castle, to be entertained after his fashion. It was more than a week before they returned and she could attend to the cargo the ship had brought.
To open the crates and to find in one of them the limp, apparently dead body of a man.
Chapter Eleven
Chagney had taken too long to die. Sitting in a sheltered corner on a high, battlemented promenade, Dumarest recalled how the body, though wasted with disease, had continued stubbornly to function. His own, innate determination to survive had worked against his own interest, adding strength, the power of will. And it had not only been his own.
Warmed by the suns he stared bleakly at a lichened wall remembering how, with the Sleethan on its way scant hours after landing on Zakym, he had made an end.
Drugs and alcohol were taking too long and, should it be examined, the wound on his thigh could arouse question. Space was big and empty and clean. A port, cycled, would hurl his body into the void leaving another mystery to add to the rest. Another strange disappearance.
But it had not been easy to do and, as he'd reached for the final lever, there had been a crying deep within his brain.
A crying.
Dumarest felt the constriction of his stomach as he thought about it. It had been real, an intelligence fighting for life, somehow knowing and therefore, somehow aware. Chagney, trapped, helpless, his body usurped, crying at the approach of death.
It had come with air gusting from ruptured lungs, eyes freezing into gelid liquids, the blood fuming,in the veins at the sudden release of pressure. For a long, aching moment he had hung naked in the void, shrinking at the vast immensity of the universe, overwhelmed by its tremendous majesty and then had come dissolution.
"Earl!" Lavinia came towards him, striding with a mobile grace along the promenade. She was smiling and the delicate contours of her face held a glowing radiance. "You are awake. Good. I thought you might be asleep."
"I've slept enough."
"Good." She sat beside him and he caught the scent of her perfume. "How do you feel?" She laughed before he could answer. "A stupid question. Why do we ask such things? You almost died-how else would you feel but weak and ill?"
"Grateful."
"For life?"
"For that and for the good luck which gave it to me." Dumarest rose and stretched then took his place again on the bench. "And I am not ill."
"But a little weak?" Concern darkened her eyes. "Too weak to talk?"
"No."
"I am not distressing you?"
"No."
"I am glad of that. Roland thought you would die. I thought you had died. You were so still, so chill, you didn't even seem to be breathing. I couldn't even feel a pulse when you were taken from the crate."
"I was under quick-time," said Dumarest.
"Yes, so Roland explained. He knows about these things. He has traveled while I have not. Yet, even when he'd injected the neutralizer, you still didn't recover. You seemed to be in a coma. It lasted for-well, a long time. And then, when you finally woke, you called my name. At least I thought you did. But it wasn't mine, was it? How could it have been?"
A face which swam from shadows to form shape and substance before his newly opened eyes. One set against a background which accentuated the ebon sheen of the hair, the hauntingly familiar contours of the face. One he had last seen lying in the empty stillness of death.