E.C Tubb: Web of Sand

She looked down and saw her hand, the fingers spread, the skin pale in the soft light from the room. Yunus Ambalo, a member of the Cinque; the five families which owned Harge. The Ambalo, Yagnik, Khalil, Barrocca and Tinyeh owning water, food, power, accommodation and transportation. On Harge you lived by their sufferance or you didn't live at all.

The hand had closed into a fist, the nails digging into her palm and in imagination she could feel that same hand closed around her body, holding her, tightening, making her a helpless prisoner of the Cinque. How long could she retain even a fraction of personal integrity? How long before she turned into something as coarse and crude as the girl who had served her?

Outside the dust turned black, lights brightening within the room, the pane becoming a mirror holding her reflection. An image taken from a tapestry; tall, the oval face slashed with a generous mouth betraying in its sensuosity, the eyes, deep-set, vividly green. The hair which hung like a cascade of flame, ruby tints reflected from cheeks and chin and the long column of her throat. The body hugged by gossamer fabrics, the fullness of breasts and hips emphasized by the narrow waist.

"Beautiful! Ellain, my darling, you are beautiful!"

Another image joined her own in the reflective pane, this taken from a frieze; the face of stone, flared nostrils, a cleft chin, a dark mass of hair tightly curled on a peaked skull, the nose aquiline, arrogant, proud. A man taller than herself who stepped close to stand behind her, arms circling her body, the hands rising, cupped, toward her breasts.

Hands which closed to rest on her shoulder blades as she turned to look up into his smiling face, seeing the smile turn into a frown, the amber eyes blaze then turn cold as, deftly, she slipped from the circle of his embrace.

"No, Yunus."

"You object? But why? May not a man appreciate beauty?"

"From a distance, yes."

"This to me?" Again a controlled anger burned in the catlike eyes. "Is the past so easily forgotten?"

"The past is just that-the past." She moved from the window as the cloud of ebon dust yielded to a swirl of paler hue; chalk white touched with scabrous gray laced with somber umber flecked with pearl. "You presume too much."

"Presume?" His gesture embraced the room, the soft furnishings, the things of value which graced the surfaces of small tables, pedestals, cabinets. Statuettes, carved gems, small figurines some in suggestively erotic poses, others screaming in silent agony. In a bowl stood crystalline flowers with petals exuding an induced scent; rich, heavy and sensuous odors which hung like fragrant clouds over the shimmering petals. "Must I remind you to whom this belongs?"

"You own the room," she admitted. "The whole, damned apartment and everything in it. But never make the mistake of thinking you own me."

A matter he could have argued but knew better than to press the point. Later, perhaps, when his interest had waned and she annoyed him too much with her stubborn independence, but not now. Now it pleased him to be gracious, acting the sophisticate, crossing the room with casual indifference to pour wine from a crystal decanter into goblets engraved with interwound figures of classical proportions.

"The storm," he said gently. "Always you are like this during a storm. And yet your very anger accentuates your loveliness. And I? I cannot help but to respond."

"You flatter me, Yunus."

"When has truth ever been flattery?" Smiling, he handed her one of the goblets. "Come, let us drink to a cessation of hostilities between us. To your beauty, my dear! May it never wane!"

A toast in which she could join-God help her should she ever grow ugly. The thought of it made her swallow the wine, feeling its warm comfort as it ran down her throat to blossom in her stomach. His smile grew wider as she handed him the empty container.

"More?"

"No." She touched her throat, long fingers caressing the larynx, the silken sheen of the skin. "If I am to perform I must stay in condition. I assume you want me to perform?"

"Of course. But-"

"Don't be tiresome, Yunus. Your generosity has bought my voice not the use of my body." She saw the sudden tension of muscle at the edge of his jaw, the tautening of the skin over the knuckles of the hand which held his goblet. Quickly she added, "I'm sorry. The wine, the storm-please forgive me!"

For a moment she thought that, this time, she had gone too far, and cursed herself for her stupidity. To have called such a man tiresome! The insult was enough for him to take a vicious revenge. To have her taken and stripped and staked out on the sand. To let the wind-driven dust flay her alive. To turn the beauty he professed to admire into a shrieking nightmare of bloody horror.

Why had she been such a fool?

"You will forgive me, Yunus?" Then, as he made no answer, she continued, "Where do you wish me to sing? Here? At a private assembly? In public?"

"Not in public." Slowly he set down the goblet. Straightening, he turned to face her and she noticed the hard cruelty of his mouth, the implacable anger in his eyes. "I had intended for you to entertain a few selected guests; those who have the sensitivity and understanding to appreciate your talent. Now I am not sure if it would be wise."

"Because of what I said?" She guessed the answer and knew, with sudden insight, that to crawl now would be a mistake. "I did not say you were tiresome, Yunus, I asked you not to be. A foolish remark, perhaps, but hardly the cause for such annoyance. From a child I would have expected such a tantrum but not from a grown man. And even less from a man of your sophistication." Her laughter was the chiming of bells. "Come, my dear, let us drink again."

"And risk your purity of tone?"

"For you, yes. Please?"

She relaxed as he poured the wine, enjoying her triumph, enjoying too, now that it was over, the battle and danger she had tasted, the risk she had run. A small risk, perhaps, even Yunus would hardly dare face the displeasure of the Cinque by taking such a personal revenge as she had imagined, but, if driven too far, he would defy the universe and do or have it done.

And, always, she had enjoyed playing with fire.

She smiled as she took the proffered goblet and turned as she sipped to face the window. The dust was thin now, gusting, forming plumes as the dying wind released its hold. Already the maintenance crews would be busy with scoops and blowers to clear the vents and ports. More would be using heavy-duty lasers to fuse the sides of dunes and form paths, to support threatening masses and hold the dust in the configurations it had adopted. Temporary measures-the next storm would negate all they could do.

"You will sing," he said as he joined her. "Three songs and I leave it to you to determine which they shall be." A command-his tone softened as she nodded. "And afterward we can enjoy other entertainment. Sabinnus has a new dancer."

"A rival?"

"No, my dear, you are beyond compare. In any case she lacks grace. He found her in the Burrows, so I understand, or at least that is what he says. It adds to her attraction." He added, casually, "She dances between blades of naked steel."

And those watching would be eager for her to cut feet and legs, more interested in the spectacle of blood rather than a display of art. Ellain lifted the goblet and drank the last of the wine. The sting of alcohol would lull her precision a little but only an expert would notice the loss of purity. Those she had been ordered to entertain would be more interested in her body than her voice. The scarlet gown, then? The color would accentuate that of her hair or, no, it would be better to complement it rather than provide a match. Green, then? Or the tunic of gold which gave full revealment to her legs? Or something simple yet enticing in dusty black?