"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.
Killing it.
And killing Marta Caine.
Dumarest saw her stagger as the jewel exploded in her hands. A puff of brilliance which accompanied a sudden, crystalline, shatter. A rain of fragments fell from the opening fingers, the falling hands. A glittering rain which sprayed to a widening shower as the thin body wafted the air in its fall.
"Marta!" Santis was at her side, cradling her sagging head as he expertly checked for signs of life. As Dumarest knelt at his side he said, "She's gone, Earl. Dead."
"Dead?" Kemmer looked stunned. "But how? Who did it? That woman?" He glared at Ellain where she stood, face buried in her arms. "That red-haired bitch? Was she responsible?"
"Steady!" Dumarest reached out and touched the thin face. Glitter stained his fingers as he lifted them from the flaccid skin. "Her heart went or her nerves gave out or something yielded in her brain. How did she get so thin? Wasn't she eating?"
"The jewel, Earl." Santis closed the staring eyes. "It sucked her life."
"Didn't she know? Didn't she care?" Dumarest remembered the casino. "The fool. I tried to help her. There was no need for this."
"Perhaps she'd given up." Gently the mercenary rested her head on the glittering floor. A rasp of his hand and shards of the broken jewel rested against her cheek. "I've been watching her. Half the time she only pretended to eat and when you're old you lose energy fast. She was older than we guessed. And, maybe, she was happy to go."
To die with her jeweclass="underline" the toy which had graced her life. To end in song and a bright, wonderful, glittering rain. She could have done a lot worse.
Chapter Seven
"Earth?" Alejandro Jwani pursed his lips and frowned. "Was it mentioned?"
"We spoke of it," said Dumarest. "At the party."
"Tariq's affair? I heard about what happened. A damned shame. Tariq got more than he bargained for. I suppose it put an end to the festivities?" Jwani sighed as Dumarest nodded. "To be expected. A pity I missed it but, as you know, I had to leave early."
"You were ill."
"I was drunk." Jwani smiled. "You don't have to be polite with me, Earl. I'm not such a fool as not to know my own failings. Wine is one of them. I have others." He gestured at the room. "The evidence is all about you."
The chamber was long, wide, the roof a semi-circular vault The walls were hung with maps, diagrams, schematics. Models stood on low stands, some working with a silent efficiency, others immobile. Benches held a litter of tools and apparatus. The roof was studded with lights; some of changing hue and brilliance, others with a baleful glare. A study and workroom into which Dumarest had been shown by an attendant. Jwani had joined him from his own personal quarters beyond a narrow door.
Now, pausing by a table, he said, "I am forgetting to be hospitable. Something to drink? I've wine and spirits and coffee if you prefer something innocuous. Or would you care to join me in a rather excellent tisane?" He beamed as Dumarest nodded. "Good. It will only take a few moments."
It took three minutes during which time Dumarest examined some of the furnishings, turning to accept a steaming cup from his host. It was of delicate porcelain ornamented with sinuous shapes holding orbs in their gaping jaws. The vapor rising from it held the scent of pine. The tisane itself was refreshingly tart.
"That's better!" Jwani helped himself to more. "Drugs have their uses but nothing can beat a good cup of tisane to settle the stomach. Earth, eh? Did we really talk about it?"
"Briefly, yes. Then you went on to discuss semantics and philosophy." Dumarest added, "We also drank a toast."
"To my health." Jwani looked at his tisane. "It seems I needed it. But what about Earth?"
"I heard that you had been there."