The first reason was enough; a bargain made was a bargain which should be kept and money was necessary for continuing the search for Earth. The second?
Dumarest looked at the woman. Was she pregnant or was the claim a woman's wile? A lie designed to weaken his resolve to hunt for the planet of his birth, to keep him at her side? It was possible, as possible as the claimed pregnancy if his seed was still viable after so many years spent exposed to the radiations of space.
"Our lands, Earl," she said, urgently. "Those of Belamosk and Prabang. Together they will make the largest holding on Zakym. We could absorb others, expand, break and cultivate new ground. Grow, Earl. Grow!"
Building chains to hold him, new responsibilities which would claim his attention, a net of need in which to hold him fast. Looking at him Lavinia realized she was going too fast too far. Little by little, step by step, to catch such a man needed care.
"The child you speak of." He was blunt. "Are you pregnant?"
"You doubt me, Earl?"
"I asked a question."
"And received an answer. We of Belamosk do not lie."
And neither did they tell the whole of the truth. No answer had been given and she must know it. Then why the reluctance? Fear of losing him on the first vessel? Fear of his reaction? Fear that what was yet in doubt could turn out to be a false hope?
A trap baited with honey-and what could be sweeter than a baby's need?
"Earl?" She came to him, all warmth and invitation, perfume rising from the mane of her hair, the subtle scents of her body augmenting the selected odor. "Earl, will you fight?"
For Earth. For the money to find it. For the pride of holding what was his own. For the woman and the child she could be carrying and the security both would need.
"Yes," he said, "I'll fight."
Chapter Nine
Castle Belamosk changed. The gentle air of unhurried indolence vanished to be replaced by a fevered sense of urgency with women kept busy sewing uniforms of strong fabric reenforced with leather, with artisans making heavy boots, edged weapons, belts, canteens. Others furbished old weapons; sporting rifles and pistols used in formal duels, even crossbows made to designs supplied by Dumarest.
He shrugged when Lavinia pointed out the primitive nature of the weapons.
"A bolt can kill as surely as a bullet if well-aimed. It would be nice to equip the men with lasers but we haven't got them."
"But crossbows?"
"Are easy to make and simple to use. The bolts they use can be recovered and used again and again. The weapon itself will get them used to the weight of arms." Patiently he ended, "Leave it to me, Lavinia. I know what I'm doing."
Arming and teaching men to be soldiers, to march and drill and to kill when given the order. But, as the days passed, she realized that to train men wasn't as simple as she had thought.
"It's a matter of cultural conditioning," explained Roland when she spoke of it one day after watching a group of young boys try and fail to perform a simple maneuver. "Our retainers have never had to think for themselves in their entire lives. They know what to do and how it should be done and have never had the need to think of alternative methods. Now they are being asked to change their social pattern into something strange and a little frightening. To perform acts without apparent purpose. To obey without apparent need. March, turn, halt, drop, aim, fire-words new to their vocabulary. But don't worry, my dear, Earl knows what he is doing."
Bran Welos wasn't so sure.
At first it had been a game and he had been eager to thrust himself forward for, as his dead father had advised during delusia, the one who was among the first would be the one to gain rapid advancement. And Gelda had been pleased and given him the reward of her body that same night after curfew when the castle had been sealed against the dark. Even at dawn when he has assembled with the others it hadn't seemed too hard. The initial marching had become tiresome and the drills were stupid but there were watching faces to smile at and familiar things to see.
Then Kars Gartok had struck him and knocked him down and swore at him as he lay with blood running from his nose.
"Pay attention you fool! Left is left not right! March, don't slouch, and take that silly grin off your face. You're a man, not a clown. Head up, shoulders squared, stomach in, chest out, back straight, eyes ahead-now on your feet and march! March! March!"
March until his legs grew weak with fatigue, his feet sore with blisters, his eyes burning with glare and dust. March and obey until he had become a machine without sense or feeling. Then the long, long journey out into the arid lands without water or food and with the crossbow he had been given a dragging weight at his shoulder.
"Keep in step there!" Dumarest was in charge of the party. "Left! Left! Left, right, left! Don't drag your feet! Left! Left!"
Welos spat and muttered something. Dumarest heard it but paid no attention. Anger was a good stimulus and if a man trained to be deferential all his life could have found the courage to vent his displeasure then it was a sign the training was having some effect.
A man stumbled, fell, lay in the dust. He turned to face the sky, his cracked lips parting.
"Water I must have water!"
"On your feet!"
"A drink! I must-"
"Get up!" Stooping Dumarest lifted the man by brute force. "You aren't thirsty," he snapped. "You haven't been out long enough for that. Now suck a pebble or something and stop thinking about water. Just concentrate on putting one foot before the other. March!" His tone became ugly. "March, damn you, or I'll cut your throat!"
One glance at the harsh set of the features and the man hurried to catch up with the rest, thirst and weariness forgotten. As he moved forward Dumarest looked at the sky. The suns were past the zenith, edging close but, he hoped, not too close for delusia. He had enough problems without having the group of men complain to their dead relatives and friends and, perhaps, being given destructive advice.
He halted the column at the summit of a knoll and checked for landmarks and guides.
"Listen." He looked at the ring of attentive faces. "Pay attention. You're all hungry and thirsty and tired and you'd like a chance to rest and take things easy. Right?"
He waited for the murmur of agreement to fade.
"If you were ordinary men you could do that but you are soldiers. Soon you'll have to fight and your lives will depend on your ability to learn. What I want you to realize is that you can go on far longer than you think is possible. You can last without food and water and rest and move faster than you know. We're going to prove it. You!" His finger scanned. "How much further can you walk?"
"A few miles, sir. Maybe three."
"You?"
"Five at least." The man scowled at the murmurs of protest. "I'm not soft like the rest of you. I worked on the land."
And so was relatively tough as those who tended the herd were the toughest of them all, but those men couldn't be spared.
"On your feet!" Dumarest waited then, pointing, said. "Over there lies food and water and huts with beds in which to sleep. Normally it would take a man seven hours of hard walking to cover the distance. It will be dark in six. So, on the double, move!"
The lamp was a glass container filled with oil, an adjustable wick, a chimney of tinted crystal. Kars Gartok lit it, adjusted the flame and set it on the table. Bowls of food stood on the board together with flagons of brackish water and thin wine.
"Three," he said. "You pushed them hard, Earl."
Dumarest leaned back in his chair, lines of fatigue tracing their paths over his face. "Dead?"
"No. Just exhausted, but if we hadn't sent out for them they'd be where they had fallen." He looked at the shuttered windows. "Out on the desert in the dark. They were crying when we found them, sick with fear of the Sungari." Pausing he added, "Would they have died?"