E. Tubb: Prison of Night

"Not you, Lavinia."

"Who else was here?"

Memories, a reminder, a peril which always threatened. The robe she wore was the color of flame. He had caught a glimpse of scarlet, a hint of motion, had felt the touch and had reacted without conscious thought. But how to explain?

"You were wearing red," he said. "I'm sensitive to that color. It has certain unpleasant associations."

"I'll burn everything red I own!"

"No, the color suits you." He smiled and, reaching out, lifted a portion of the garment and let it slip through his fingers. "I'm just trying to make you understand. I meant you no harm-surely you know that? It was just that I was thinking and you touched me and old habits took over."

"Old?" Lavinia shook her head. "Not old, Earl. Time blunts the speed of reflexes and your's are the fastest I've ever seen. You would have killed me if you hadn't recognized me in time. An ordinary man would have been unable to stop. An assassin would be dead. How could anyone stand against you?" She looked down at her ruined garment and then, with eyes still lowered, said, quietly, "Who did I remind you of, Earl?"

"No one." The truth-the enemy wore no particular face. "It was an accident, Lavinia. Let's forget it."

"Something is worrying you. I've felt it for some time now. But what, my darling? You are safe here. No enemy can reach you. My retainers will protect you in case of need. Earl-trust me!"

She was a woman and her intuition was strong but to trust her was to put a knife in her hand to hold against his throat.

He said, "Forget it, Lavinia. Please."

"But-"

"Please!"

He closed the distance between them and took her in his arms, holding her close, feeling the warm softness of her flesh against his own, the soft yielding of her breasts, the firm curves of hips and thighs. A good way to distract a woman and she was a creature made for love.

"Earl!"

She stirred in his arms, straining, her perfume filling his nostrils with the scent of expensive distillations, the odor mingling with her natural exudations; the subtle smells of her hair, the animal-scent of her femininity. Triggers which stimulated his maleness and worked their ancient, biological magic.

"Darling!" His proximity, his need, fired her response. She threw back her head, face misted with passion, hands rising to clasp his neck. The heat of her body matched the color of her robe. "Earl, my darling! My love! My love!"

Dinner was late that evening but, once started, progressed as usual when guests were present at Castle Belemosk. A succession of dishes accompanied by appropriate wines together with compotes, nuts, fruits, sweetmeats, comfits-items to titivate the palate and to stretch the occasion as did the entertainers. Dumarest crushed a nut between his palms and watched as a trio of young girls danced with lithe grace, making up in natural beauty what they lacked in trained skill. Before them an old man had chanted a saga, before him a juggler had kept glittering balls dancing through the air. He had followed a harpist and the girls would be followed by a man skilled on a flute.

"Lavinia, my dear, always your hospitality is superb!" Fhard Erason, hard, blocky, a member of the Council of Zakym, leaned back in his chair as a servant refilled his goblet. His face was flushed a little and his eyes held a glitter but he was far from drunk. "At times I envy you and, always, I envy the man at your side."

A little more and there would have been grounds for a quarrel, for weapons at dawn and injury or death waiting one or both. Crushing another nut Dumarest wondered if the baiting had been deliberate but the man had ended in time and left the comment as a compliment. And yet, if he had added 'no matter who he might be' what then?

"A fine chef, skilled entertainers, a magnificent selection of wines-what more could any man want?" Alacorus, gruffly polite yet a little clumsy in his choice of words. He, like Howich Suchong, like Navalok, like the Lord Roland Acrae also belonged to the Council. An accident that so many should have gathered at this time?

A triple beat signaled the ending of the dancers' performance. It was followed by a scatter of applause and the ringing jingle of thrown coins. Flushing the girls picked up their reward and ran with a flash of silken limbs from the platform. The flutist, tall, thin, his hands like those of a woman, took his place, coughed, waited a moment then began to play.

From his place at Lavinia's left hand Roland said, "Lavinia, my dear, you are looking positively radiant."

Her smile was enigmatic.

"You have blossomed since Dumarest came." The glass he held was of fragile glass fitted with a delicate stem. He looked down at it, now snapped, a thin smear of blood on one finger. "I-. My apologies, Lavinia, how did that happen?"

"An accident, as you say." Imperiously she gestured to a servant to provide a replacement. "Your hand?"

"It is nothing." He sucked at the minor wound, his eyes searching her face, the mane of her hair now held in a silver mesh sparkling with gems. "Are you happy, my dear?"

"Roland-how can you doubt?" She turned to him, lips moistly parted, the gleam of white teeth showing between the scarlet. "I never thought I would ever know such fulfillment. Earl is a man! With him at my side-"

"If he stays, my dear."

"If he stays," she admitted, and a shadow misted her eyes. It lasted a moment then was gone. "He will stay," she said. "And together we shall rule. His lands and mine together." She saw his momentary frown. "Roland? Is something wrong?"

"Later, my dear. It is nothing but-well, later. We have plenty of time."

The entire night if necessary-once trapped by the darkness none could leave. Until dawn each would do as he wished to beguile the tedium. There would be talk, more wine, sweetmeats, mutual entertainments and, finally, sleep. And, at dawn, freed of the prison of the night, life would begin again.

The flutist finished his piece, offered to play another, was refused and stalked from the hall. The table was cleared, the servants making a final survey before they left to enjoy their own repast and, within minutes, Lavinia and her guests were alone.

"A good meal." Navalok rose and stretched and took a few steps to where a fire glowed in a heap of embers on a dulled platform of stone. He held his hands to it for a moment, enjoying the sight, the comfort of the flame, then turned. "The dish of broiled meat dusted with nuts and spiced with that pungent sauce. The one adorned with the head of a stallion in pastry."

"You want the recipe?" Lavinia smiled at his nod. "You shall have it if I have to torment the cook to obtain it. A friend like yourself can be denied nothing."

An offer with qualifications unnecessary to stipulate as he knew. And yet, if he had been younger, perhaps…

As if reading his mind Roland said, quietly, "Think of your youth, Navalok. If you had been the consort of such a woman would you have been gentle to those who hoped to gain what you held?"

"No."

"Then-"

"Spare me your warnings, Roland. I am not wholly a fool." Navalok glanced to where Dumarest stood beyond the table. In the somber glow he looked ghost-like in the plainness of his clothing. A man who wore no gems and who scorned the slightest decoration.

Was there a reason?

Navalok studied the clothing. The tunic was high around the throat, the sleeves long and snug at the wrists, the hem falling to mid-thigh. Pants of the same material were thrust into knee-high boots and the hilt of a knife rose above the right. A man who looked what he was, he decided. A traveler, a fighter, a man who walked alone.

"Grey," mused Navalok. "Why does he wear grey?"

"Camouflage, perhaps?" Roland ventured a guess. "Bright colors could offend as well as attract possibly unwelcome attention. Habit? A cultural conditioning? There could be many explanations but I think the obvious is the answer. We tend to forget that, for some, clothing is a matter of functional necessity and not of stylish fashion. For a man on the move, needing to carry little, his garments must be both tough and efficient."