E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 20 - Web of Sand

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Web of Sand by E.C.

Tubb

Chapter One

Marta Caine had a singing jewel which she took from its box

and held cupped in her palms as she stood in the salon of the

Urusha.

"From Necho," she said, her eyes on the crystal. "I bought it

when young and have carried it with me ever since. A long time

now. Too long."

"It looks dull," said Kemmer. "Dead."

"It's fatigued."

"Why haven't we seen it before?" Grish Mettalus leaned

forward from where he stood behind Chai Teoh. Like the girl, he

was tall, slim, eyes slanted beneath narrow brows but where her

face held a high-boned delicacy his features bore a broad and

flattened stamp. "You are unkind, Marta. The gem would have

helped relieve our boredom."

"As I said, it is tired." The veined hands seemed to press

reassuringly against the crystal cupped in the palms. "I have kept

it cooped in darkness too long. When we reach Fendris I shall set

it on a high and open place where it can feed on sunlight and

starlight, be caressed by soft breezes and laved with gentle rains.

Then it will regain its vitality and become young again."

Bitterness edged her voice. "Would to God that it was as easy for

others to restore their beauty."

"You are beautiful enough," said Kemmer with heavy

gallantry. "With a warmth no stone can possess."

"You are kind to say so, Maurice—but my mirror tells a

different story."

"Mirrors can lie. The beauty of a woman is more than a

patina of skin. It is the need within her, the spirit, the response

she creates in those who watch her walk and talk and smile. A

thing of the heart. Am I not right, Earl?"

Dumarest nodded, making no comment as he watched the

jewel cupped in the woman's hands. It no longer looked gray and

dull like flawed glass but had gained an inner luminescence as,

triggered by the metabolic heat and stimulation of flesh, it

responded in vibrant light and sound. The glow became brighter,

splintered in a sudden mass of broken rainbows which filled the

salon with swaths of drifting color, a kaleidoscopic brilliance

which gave the chairs, the tables and fittings a transient and

enticing magic. And as with the furnishings so those who stood

bathed in the splendor now streaming from the jewel; Kemmer,

suddenly no longer the gross trader he was but now a figure of

dignity as the harsh and somber shape of Carl Santis the

mercenary took on hints of a chivalry he had never known from a

tradition he had never suspected. Mettalus, the girl standing

before him, Dumarest who now wore a shattered spectrum to

decorate his face and hair and clothing. But of them all Marta

was the most transfigured.

She stood like a priestess of some esoteric cult, hands lifted

now, the effulgence of the jewel bathing her uplifted face and

robbing it of the scars and marks of time. The skin had

smoothed, the mesh of lines marring the flesh at the corners of

the eyes lost in flattering glows. The lips had gained fullness, the

chin liberated from sagging tissue, the bones of cheeks

prominent above exotic concavities. The nose had thinned,

become arrogant in haughty affirmation of youthful pride, age

and dissolution stripped away to show the girl she once had

been. The hair, too, had changed, now displaying glints and

glimmers of vibrant hues, of sheens and enticing softness.

The light gave her beauty and she drank it and returned it

through the touch of her hands, the emitted nervous tensions of

her body which stimulated the symbiote she held into a higher

plane of existence.

Chai Teoh gasped as it began to sing. "Grish! What—"

"Be silent, girl!" Santis rasped the command. "Be still!" His

tone held the snap of one accustomed to obedience, but more

imperious in its demand for attention was the song of the jewel

itself. It lifted, keening, undulating, a note of crystalline purity

which penetrated skin and bone and muscle to impact on the

nerves and brain and the raw stuff of emotion itself. A song

without words and without a predictable pattern but one which

held love and hope and joy and all the promise there ever could

be and all the happiness ever imagined.

"God!" Kemmer's whisper was a prayer as he stood, tears

streaming over his rounded cheeks. "God—dear God!"

A man lost in the past or dreaming of what he had known or

touched by a gentleness hitherto unsuspected and frightening in

its overwhelming tenderness. He did not weep alone. The face of

Chai Teoh glistened with moist color, shimmering pearls falling

unheeded from the line of her jaw as she stood lost in a radiant

pleasure. As Santis stood, his scarred face a prison for his eyes,

the eyes wells of somber introspection. Mettalus said, "This is

fantastic! I've never—"

"Be silent!" snapped the mercenary. "Hold your tongue!" His

scowl deepened as the singing faltered and then, reluctantly,

faded to quaver and finally to cease leaving a silence so intense

that it could almost be felt as a tangible presence. As the sound

died so the shimmering colors diminished, closing in to form a

luminescent cloud, a ball, a tinge on the surface of the crystal, a

memory.

For a long moment Marta Caine held her poise then, slowly,

she lowered her hands to stand looking at the dull surface of the

gem. Robbed of its magic she looked as she was, a woman too old

for comfort, one who had lived hard and who showed it. The

face, lax, showed the marks of cheap cosmetic surgery; subtle

distortions of ill-matched implants giving her a pathetically

clownish appearance. Her hair looked like the graft it was. Her

eyes when she finally raised her head, betrayed her misery.

For a moment only and then the mask reappeared, the hard

cynicism which was her defense against misfortune and her

shield against derision. "Well? Did you like it?"

"It was superb!!" Chai Teoh dabbed at her eyes. "So

wonderful! I felt as if—oh, how can I explain?" Grish Mettalus

was direct.."How much?"

"For what?"

"For the jewel, of course, what else? I want it. How much?"

"It isn't for sale."

"And if it were I would buy it," said Kemmer. "Marta, you

have been most gracious. I think I speak on behalf of us all when

I thank you for having let us share the pleasure given by your

jewel. From Necho, you say?"

"Yes."

"Necho." Kemmer pursed his lips. "A long way from here but,

perhaps, not too far if a high profit is to be made. Your home

world?"

"No." Gently she restored the jewel to its box. "I was bora on

Lurus. My people owned a farm but the climate changed and

what was once fertile ground turned into desert. A solar

imbalance—" She shrugged. "The details are of no importance. I

was young and decided to help as best I could. I traveled—it's an

old story."

And one printed on her face. The mercenary said, "Did you

ever return?"

"Does anyone?" The lid snapped shut on the box. "Did you?"

"No."

"Nor I," said Kemmer. "How about you, Earl?" He smiled as

Dumarest shook his head. "Once we leave the nest it quickly loses

its attraction. Sometimes we choose to dream of a childhood

more pleasant than it really was and of a life garnished with false

tinsel, but when it comes to it who would go back home if given

the chance?" He shrugged, not waiting for an answer. "Well, how

now to pass the time? Some cards?"

The Urusha was a small vessel, a free-trader plying on the

edge of the Rift, and the passengers were left to entertain

themselves. No real hardship with planets close and quick-time

turning weeks into days, the drug slowing the metabolism and

relieving the tedium of the journey. But even so boredom was an

enemy and one to be combatted. Grish Mettalus had found his

own method, making it plain he regarded Chai Teoh as his

personal property and she, for reasons of her own, had not

objected.

Marta grunted as they left the salon. "The girl's a fool. She is

selling herself too cheaply."

"How can you know that?" Kemmer dealt cards and turned

one over. "A jester. Match, beat or defer?" He watched as they

made their bets, small amounts as to whether their own cards

could show a value equal, higher or lower than the one exposed.

A variant of High, Low, Man-In-Between. "You win, Carl. Well?"

He looked at the woman. "How do you know?"

"I've ears. He paid her passage and has promised her an

apartment on Fendris. Promises!" She echoed her contempt.

"So they come to nothing," said the trader. "But she has still

earned passage."

"And could gain more." Santis scowled at his card lying face

down on the table. "A settlement, perhaps. Even marriage. On a

journey like this a girl could make a man her own. Mettalus is

young and impressionable despite his cultivated air of

sophisticated indifference, and the girl has charm."

"But no brains." Marta thinned her lips as, again, she lost.

"And you're mistaken about Mettalus. He's older than he seems.

Right, Earl?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Don't lie to me. You'd know and so would you, Carl, if you

took the trouble to look. I can spot it—the way he stands, moves,

walks. The way he acts. Young? He's old enough to be her

father!"

"And so would make a better prize." Kemmer smiled as he

dealt a new round. "There is no fool like an old fool and I speak

from experience. But what are a few years between lovers? Age

brings experience and a certain degree of tolerance. Matched to

youth it can have a beneficial effect. Some cultures realize that.

On Richemann, for example, no girl is permitted to marry a man

less than twenty years older than herself and no man a woman

less than twenty years younger. That way all gain the benefit of

both worlds; when young you match with age, when old you

enjoy youth. Sometimes I think I will settle there."

"Why don't you?"

"The journey is long and I not too fond of unripe fruit."

"You degenerate swine!" Her words were hard but she smiled

as she spoke them and Dumarest knew she was joking. Knew too

that she and the trader had both found comfort in each other's

arms.

He said, "Have any of you made this journey before?"

"From Elgish to Fendris?" Kemmer shook his head. "Marta?

How about you, Carl?"

"Once—some time ago now." The mercenary frowned,

thinking, remembering. "It seemed shorter than this."

"Shorter? You think something is wrong?" Marta Caine was

genuinely afraid. They were in the Rift and in the Rift danger

was always close. "Maurice! Earl! Carl—are you sure?"

"No, how can I be?" He bridled beneath her urgency. "It was

years ago. But if you're worried I'll ask the steward."

"No," said Dumarest. "We'll ask the captain."

Frome matched his ship, a small, hard man with filed teeth

over which his lips fitted like a trap. He scowled as he came to

the door leading into the control room.

"You're off limits. Return to the salon at once."

"Willingly, Captain, as soon as you have eased our minds."

Dumarest kept his voice casual. "We are a little concerned about

the delay. Is something wrong with the ship?"

"No."

"I'm glad to hear it. The ladies were anxious. Then it's true we

are being diverted? The steward mentioned—"

"What he shouldn't have done." Unthinkingly the captain fell

into the trap. "The fool should have known better than to relay

ship business to passengers."

Dumarest said, flatly, "Our business too, Captain. Where are

we heading?"

"Harge."

"Harge?" Carl Santis thrust himself forward, his face ugly. "I

booked to Fendris. I can't afford the delay."

"You leave the ship on Harge. You all leave it."

Dumarest dropped his hand to the mercenary's arm, feeling

the tense muscle as he restrained Santis's lunge. Frome was

armed, a laser holstered at his waist, one hand resting close to

the butt—an unusual addition to any captain's uniform and a

sure sign that he anticipated trouble. The navigator too was

armed. He stood back in the control room, his weapon aimed at

the group beyond the door.

Kemmer snapped, "That isn't good enough. I demand an

explanation."

"Demand?" Frome bared his pointed teeth. "Demand?"

The trader had courage. "A deal was made, passage booked,

money handed over. A high passage to Fendris. That's what I

paid for and that's what I want."

"What you paid for was passage to my next planet of call and

that's exactly what you're getting."

"You—"

"It should have been Fendris," said Dumarest quickly.

Kemmer was about to lose his temper and, once antagonized, the

captain would tell them nothing. He might even use his

laser—Frome was the type. "But in space things can happen,"

continued Dumarest evenly. "The unexpected and the dangerous

and the more so when in the Rift. Is that what happened,

Captain? Some danger you had to avoid?"

"A warp," said Frome after a moment. "We hit one and it

created strain in the generator. To proceed to Fendris would be

to take too big a risk. That's why I headed for Harge." He added,

"We'd have landed by now if it hadn't been for the storm."

The girl was careless, setting down the cup with too great a

force so that the delicate china rang and a little tisane slopped

from the container to puddle in the saucer. A puddle she quickly

removed with the hem of her dress but the damage had been

done and the very act of cleaning the mess had been an affront.

To use the hem of her dress! The action of a common strumpet

in a low tavern or of a slut from the Burrows!

"My lady, will that be all?"

"Yes." Even the thick tones of the girl created irritation. "No!

Take the cup away. The saucer too, you fool! And change into a

clean dress."

And, she thought, for God's sake learn how to act like a

product of civilization instead of an ignorant, stupid peasant.

Words she left unsaid as the girl picked up the tisane and

hurried it from the room. Alone Ellain Kiran stared at the

window.

A swirling brown grayness stared back.

An illusion, of course, the dust didn't possess eyes but always

when looking at the wind-blown grains she could see them; the

eyes of the dead, the eyes of those who would die and were even

now dying. And other eyes, less human, those of the inimical

forces which created the storms, the dust, the death it carried.

The hatred of nature for man and his works. The eyes of a thing

bent on destruction.

And yet, still, it held a strange and tormented beauty.

It drew her closer, naked feet padding over the tufted carpet,

her gown rustling as the fabric dragged over the surface of a low

table, small chimes spilling from disturbed bells. A

tintinnabulation she ignored as, halting, she stared at the

smooth curve of the plastic, the fury of the storm beyond.

The air, the dust, all were joined in seething turmoil. Winds

sweeping from the distant mountains, lifting sands from the

deserts, catching them, driving them in a composite whole.

Grains of silica, basalt, granite, manganese. Crystalline particles

formed of minute rubies, agates, diamonds, emeralds. The

detritus of ancient cataclysms which had taken the mineral

wealth of Harge and pulverized it and spread it wide and far to

be the sport of surging winds. Crystals each facet of which were

knives, each point a needle. Carried by the winds at fantastic

velocities, they scoured the world.

Nothing unprotected could live a moment in such a blast.

Even the toughest suit and thickest pane would fret and wear

and shred into particles. Cracks would form, widen, open to

expose the skin and flesh and muscle beneath. A moment and it

would be ripped away by the ravening fury of countless minute

teeth. Even now men lost in the storm could be dying, screaming

as the acid of the blast flayed them raw, turning them into

grinning parodies of men before even bone and teeth vanished

with the rest.

The thought created a tension in her loins and she shuddered,

drawing a deep breath, inflating her chest as she stared at the

fury beyond the window. The pane itself was unmarked,

protected from the scouring dust by an electronic field which

kept the particles at bay. An expensive installation but one

Yunus could afford. As he could afford so much.

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

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ScannedbyHighroller.Proofedbyanunsunghero.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.WebofSandbyE.C.TubbChapterOneMartaCainehadasingingjewelwhichshetookfromitsboxandheldcuppedinherpalmsasshestoodinthesalonoftheUrusha."FromNecho,"shesaid,hereyesonthecrystal."Iboughtitwhenyoungandhavecarrieditwithm...

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