She had no reason to lie and it sounded reasonable. Certainly he had run into stranger mores but it was a chance lost. Few men when in need would be reluctant to accept help and, when drunk, a man often could be influenced to tell more than he intended.
Ellain said, "I'm sorry, Earl. If Alejandro has a fault it's that he can't hold his liquor. He also doesn't know when to stop. Usually he just becomes a bore but tonight he outdid himself. Still, it gives you an advantage."
"How?"
"He doesn't usually remember just what he's said toward the last." She looked at him without expression. "Shall we dance?"
He led her to the center of the floor, her scarlet hair cascading over an emerald gown, her waist caught with a cincture of gold, more gold hugging her naked, high-arched feet Dumarest had little interest in the dance but the needs of the arena had made him light on his feet and the beat of the music was easy to follow. Ellain matched his movements, accentuating them, adding more of her own so that she spun like a tinted river against the gray of stone. A display overpraised by a sharp-eyed woman with a painted face and nails which would have suited a feline.
"My dear, you were superb! It's such a comfort to your friends to discover you can do more than sing. I was distraught when I learned you were not to entertain us-but there are consolations."
"Of course, Weenedia. That of attending as a guest for one. I no longer have to pretend to be amused by ignorance."
The woman ignored the insult. Her voice was acid. "A new friend, I see?" Her eyes glanced toward Dumarest. "I wondered what had happened to Yunus, then I remembered he was engaged with the Barroccas on a matter of cost adjustment. Have you met Ieko Barrocca? A sweet and fantastically lovely young woman. I'm sure they will be very happy. Ah! I see young Tariq over there. I think he is about to entertain us with his new novelty."
"Bitch!" Ellain stared after the woman as she hurried away. "Trust her to turn the knife!" And trust her to tell Yunus of the dance and of Dumarest. Well, to hell with him. For tonight at least. If he was with the Barroccas he wouldn't be bothering her. And the dance had made her acutely aware of her body. "Earl, I'm bored. Take me away from here."
"Now?"
"Why not? Alejandro has left and we've done what we came for. We could walk in the gardens or visit the gymnasium. See some baiting or try a sensatape. Or we could just go back home." Her eyes told him which she preferred. "There'll be no need to hurry now. We can talk and make plans. Earl?"
Before he could answer the air trembled to the clash of a gong and, with suitable solemnity, Tariq Khalil presented the singing jewel.
Marta Caine had changed, Dumarest could tell it at once as, dressed in a long, flowing gown of sequined black, she walked from the side room out into the center of the floor. Carl and Maurice attended her, both wearing robes, the trader bearing the now-decorated box, the mercenary watchful, as always on guard against a sudden rush, a snatch, a threat to the jewel or its owner.
"This is nonsense!" Ellain didn't trouble to lower her voice. "Stupid theatricallity. What the hell's she supposed to be? A priestess of some kind?"
Dumarest said harshly, "She is a woman trying to earn a living. Respect that if nothing else."
"But-"
"Damn you! Shut up and give her a chance!"
She fell silent, shaken by his fury, wondering at his concern for a stupid old woman who walked with hands lifted in supplication as if she were praying. A woman both old and ugly; the ebon veil covering her hair framed a living skull.
Time, she thought, it brings this to us all. Age, the insidious poison which robs flesh of its firmness, muscle and tissue of resiliency. She remembered what she had seen in her mirror and felt a sudden revulsion. No! Better to die than to linger to look like the poor creature now standing, hands extended for the box which the robed figure extended toward her. The box she touched and the lid she slowly lifted while, from the musicians, came the solemn beat of a muffled drum.
Theatrical buffoonery-but effective. Even she felt the growing tension. The intangible feel of something stupendous and terrifying about to happen-a tension which mounted as the aged hands dipped into the box to lift, cupped, to poise while the fingers slowly opened to reveal what they contained.
"Glass!" She whispered her disappointment. "By God, it's just glass!"
"No." Dumarest answered her. "Not glass. Now be silent and watch what happens."
The drumbeat continued, fading, dying as if retreating to make way for something new and marvelous; becoming a stirring whisper as, its heraldry accomplished, it stole quietly from the scene.
To leave silence.
A silence which lengthened until the ears seemed to ache with waiting and then, slowly, so slowly, the jewel began to brighten, to illuminate the skeletal fingers caressing it, the skeletal face behind it. A face which tilted as the hands lifted the jewel. One which became transfigured as the gem began to sing.
And, in the song, was death.
A dirge which keened the end of all life, all sunsets, all dawns. A thin, whining threnody which told of the chill and empty places between the stars, of ice, of deserts, of hopeless emptiness. Of the slow and inevitable halting of growth and the termination of desire.
Depression came to kill the party. A cloud of endless night which froze the smiles of anticipation and converted jovial congress into the strained facade of a wake. In imagination faces became skulls and fleshless jaws gaped in grimaces which were the mockery of smiles.
"No!" Ellain felt the constriction of her stomach, her heart. "Dear God, no!"
The Interlude had never been like this. Ecuilton's despair had never touched such depths. Even Schiller in the madness which had created the Tubero had failed to induce such hopeless resignation. She felt smothered by it. Condemned and yet accepting the condemnation. Dying and resigned to death. Seeing the approaching termination of her entire existence and, singing, accepting it. Dying as she sang. Singing as she died.
No, not her-it!
The thing cradled in the thin, bony fingers. Or was it the fingers which sang and the glowing jewel only amplified? Or the woman whose hands they were? Or the brain behind the skull-like face? Or the mind within the brain? The soul? The intangible something which could never be seen, touched, measured, felt. The ego. The individual.
Not her-it!
An enemy, robbing her of life, of hope, of love. Taking all she held of value. A thing of crystal, glowing, singing, singing-and if she could do nothing else she too could sing.
Sing as the jewel sang, her voice rising, keening, the tone modulated to near-perfection, stomach and lungs, throat and larynx, mouth and teeth and lips and tongue all amplifying and directing and harmonizing the throbbing of the column of air she had created.
The note.
The rising, singing, vibrating note which rose to shrill, to merge with the song of the jewel, to blend with it, to resonate with it, to find the key, the harmonic of the stone itself.
Unseen, unheard, glass shattered on the tables and a woman screamed as she clutched her ears. A scream repeated as another fell, followed by a youth, a man, another girl. Dumarest felt the pain stab his eardrums and lifted his hands, palms cupped to give protection. Muffled as it was, the sound still penetrated and he saw Malta's face, the blood seeping from her nostrils, the lobes of her ears.
And still Ellain, mouth wide, throat corded with effort, sent the magic of her voice to challenge that of the jewel.
She had broken glass as a girl, won bets on her ability to do so, even ruined a crystal chandelier in the auditorium on Weem-an accident and one never repeated but she still had the power. And now, more than ever before, she used it. Seeking, altering her tone a fraction at a time, the harmonics, building resonance until the blood thundered in her veins and she felt the capillaries begin to yield in throat and mouth, in lips and tongue. Singing, aping the jewel, mastering it.