E.C. Tubb - The Winds of Gath

"Where is the Lady Thoth?"

"With the Matriarch." The woman was polite but curt. She had little time for anyone other than her captain and her ruler. She frowned her impatience at his next question.

"Have you seen her?"

"I have."

"Recently?"

"I have just left the chamber of the Matriarch. They are together."

"I see." He thanked her with his mechanical smile. "That will be all."

The chamber was small, bright with tapestries, heavy with the scent of spice. A glowing lamp threw soft light over the occupants. Gloria smiled as he entered.

"Dyne. You anticipate me. I was about to send for you."

Dyne looked closely at the couple. The old woman was glowing with happiness. Sitting beside her, very close, the girl reflected some of that joy. The soft light warmed her black hair, the white velvet of her skin. Her lips were full and very red, her eyes very bright. They met those of the cyber.

"The Matriarch is pleased with you," she said. "Because of your orders none have suffered so much as a burst eardrum." She laughed. "But at one time I thought that I should never hear again."

"The storm was unusual in its violence, My Lady." The cyber turned to the old woman. "I came to report that the storm is over. There may be occasional gusts but the main force of the wind is spent. We are ready to depart."

"Must we?"

"It would be best not to linger, My Lady. The external temperature is low and will fall lower. Delay will make our return more arduous and there seems little need for us to extend our stay."

She knew that well enough but, for her, Gath held magic.

"I am reluctant to leave this place," she said slowly. "It has wakened many memories. For a time I was young again and—" She swallowed. "Occasional gusts, did you say?"

"Yes, My Lady."

"Then we will stay," she decided. "Stay for just one of those gusts."

For one more contact with the dead she had loved; one more brief revival of the time when she had been young and filled with the hunger of living. He recognized the lure, assessed it, realized both its futility and strength.

"Here," said Megan. He raised his torch even higher, widening the pool of light in which they stood. "This is where I found you."

"You're sure?" Dumarest frowned as he tried to orient himself. In the dark all places looked the same, only the tents of the Matriarch looked familiar.

"I'm sure." Megan was warm in his salvaged clothing; a ring with a peculiar device shone on one finger. Dumarest had seen it before. The rosily fat man would never need it again. He had made his last gamble. "The young fellow was over there." The torch dipped as he gestured. "You were here."

Dumarest nodded, dropping to one knee, his eyes narrowed as he peered into the darkness. The glimpse had been brief and the blow on the head had jarred his memory but he was sure as to what he had seen: the lid of Sime's coffin rising from pressure beneath.

His dead wife rising at the sound of the last trump?

The concept was ludicrous in the cold light of day but it wasn't day and that tremendous blast had carried a disturbing medley of sounds. If there was such a thing as the final summons for the dead to rise then it could well have echoed then.

"Over there." Dumarest rose and strode forward. He halted, waiting until Megan caught up with him with the torch. They looked at a sea of torn and furrowed mud already glistening with heavy frost. "Further on."

They moved forward, spreading so as to cover a wider area, their breath pluming in the bitter cold. Twice patches of shadow misled them and then Dumarest felt his foot hit something solid. Together they looked down at a familiar, narrow box.

"It's closed," said Megan. "The lid—"

Dumarest leaned forward, gripped the lid, threw it to one side.

"God!" said Megan. The torch shook in his hand. "God!"

A dead woman stared up at them from the depths of the coffin.

She was no longer young, her age accentuated by the dehydrating effects of death. Sunken cheeks made waxen hollows beneath the high bones of her face. The mouth was a thin, bloodless gash. The eyes, open and sunken, looked like murky pools of stagnant water. The arms were crossed on the flat chest. She wore a simple dress which reached from her throat to her ankles. The feet were thin, ugly, mottled with veins.

"He failed," breathed Megan. His face was white in the light of the torch. "He carried her all this way for nothing. She didn't come back to life."

Dumarest was thoughtful, remembering what he had seen. He gripped one end of the coffin, lifted, let it fall with a hollow thud. Leaning forward he gripped the sparse gray hair. He pulled.

"Earl!" Megan was shocked. His eyes widened as the body rose. "What—?"

It was a molded shell. It lifted with a faint resistance from magnetic clasps exposing the contoured compartment beneath—a compartment lined with sponge rubber and shaped to hold a woman's body. From it rose a faint odor of perfume.

"Clever," said Dumarest. He released what he held and it fell back to fit snugly over the compartment. The shell stared up at them, mockery in the muddy eyes. "The perfect hiding place. Open the box and you'd see what you expected to find—the body of a long-dead woman. There would be no reason to look beneath. Not unless you spotted the difference in weight—that something had gone."

"Sime wouldn't let anyone touch the box," said Megan. He lifted his torch. "Sime! Where is Sime?"

He. was gone, vanished into the darkness, leaving nothing but the coffin behind.

THE GUARD marched her twenty paces, turned, marched back again. She moved with a mechanical precision, breath pluming in the cold air, her footsteps hard on the frozen ground. From the darkness beyond the fringe of light thrown by the torches Dumarest watched, waiting.

"Halt!"

He heard the sharp challenge, the mumbled answer, the sudden commotion. Megan was playing his part well. For a moment longer Dumarest waited, then, as the guard moved toward the disturbance, raced forward in a blur of speed. He had reached the wall of a tent, crouched, frozen into immobility before the woman had time to turn. A louder noise from where Megan argued with the guards distracted her attention long enough for Dumarest to squeeze beneath the wall.

He was lucky. The room was deserted.

He rose, eyes wide as he searched the dimness. A solitary lamp cast a shadowy light. A bench littered with instruments of metal and glass stood to one side. Something stirred in a head-high cage and he caught the gleam of watching eyes. Small animals scurried as he moved toward the door. The air stank with the acrid odor of antiseptics.

Beyond the room ran a narrow corridor, equally empty. He stood for a moment, listening, then moved softly down the passage. Footsteps echoed from around a corner and he backed into a room. It was dark, the air tinged with perfume. He tensed as the footsteps came closer.

"One of the travelers, madam. He wanted to see the Matriarch. Naturally I could not allow that."

"Did he give a reason?" The voice was deep, harsh, impatient. Elspeth, the captain of the guard, was not noted for her tolerance.

"No, madam. He just kept saying that it was important that he should see her. He refused to leave and grew quite heated." The voice rose, diminished as the speaker passed the room in which Dumarest was hiding. "I thought it best to call you, madam."

Elspeth's answer was lost as they turned from the passage.

Dumarest stiffened, inhaling the ghost-scent lingering in the room, hand searching for the light control. He found it, threw it, hastily reversed it as light stabbed at his eyes. The glare diminished to a faint glow. He saw a small room, painfully tidy, almost bare of furniture. A youth lay asleep on a narrow couch. He turned, mumbling as the light struck his eyes. Dumarest killed the faint glow and stood, waiting, as the man relaxed. Softly he left the room.